Happy Hour at the Faithful Bride
by Tina Marina
Summary: A collection of drabbles and one-shots from the Broken Compass Forum. Rated "T" for safety. Individual chapters will be marked if they have any intense content.
1. Misunderstanding

A/N: First drabble of the new year. Inspired by the prompt "misunderstanding."

**Disclaimer: I do not own PotC or any of these characters.**

The man picked his teeth with a knife Bill was certain had the remnants of at least four men on it, though his teeth were surprisingly clean for a pirate's.

The _Wicked Wench_ had sailed itself into dangerous waters for certain.

"Bes' ya give this ship up, mate." The pirate smiled, and Bill realized with s sick start that what he had taken for good dental hygiene was actually a mouth full of gold.

A laugh rang out. It was an awkward laugh, and had the high pitch of a man who has a little bit of boy left in him.

"Seems there's some sort of misunderstanding," said the captain, grinning with his own fair share of gold. "I see you've not realized that I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."


	2. Booty

**A/N: Inspired by the prompt "booty." Yes, I know, it was inevitable.**

His eyes moved slowly over the female form, pleased. He took the liberty of running his hands through Giselle's blonde hair, which, while fairly dingy in its own right, was far cleaner than his had been in years.

A fine looking and minded woman was almost impossible to find on Tortuga; so rare, in fact, that he had chosen to settle for one who was merely attractive. But look fine she did, and his smile widened to that of a crocodile's as she puffed out her chest and sucked in her stomach, trying, no doubt, to make her dress fit properly.

When non-pirating folk would remark derisively that rapscallions like himself had a presupposition to attaining booty, he took offense—booty, like its nearly identical counterpart, treasure, was not just silver and gold. Jack Sparrow could attest to that.


	3. Wait

A/N: Another drabble from the Broken Compass. The prompt was "wait."

There is always a breath before cannons fire, before sails fill with the winds of battle and the shouts of sailors snap at the salty air.

Even the sea cannot stand to watch grown men grin like boys at the satisfaction of slitting a throat, the crows of accomplishment at leaving a foe to its cruelty.

The great men, the truly great ones, the mad captains and the commodores and the nobles and the ones who are naught but legends, can all sense this moment, and breathe with the sea, take the seconds before the first shot pierces the air, before wood splinters and bone crunches. A smile will often play upon their faces as they feel the whole wide earth stop for a moment—and wait.


	4. Justice

**A/N: Another drabble from the Broken Compass. The prompt was "justice."**

Pintel squinted at the girl, who was trying to remain invisible beneath the tavern table, despite the fact that tears had trudged their silent ways down her cheeks. "Oi there!" he barked, wanting to enjoy his rum without nagging pity. "Get yourself back to your mum, eh?"

The girl merely shook her head and began to cry harder. Huffing and rapidly turning red, Pintel grabbed his nephew's arm and yanked gangly Ragetti down to the girl's height. "Fix her!" he ordered, a slight edge of worry to his voice.

Ragetti reached a hand to the child, who sniffed softly but took it. She looked to be Barbadian in descent, Ragetti reasoned.

The girl clutched a doll hastily tied together from old bits of cloth in her right hand. "That's mystical jumbo, that," Pintel sniffed. "Fancy giving it to a child!"

"It's not just jumbo," Ragetti mumbled, half to the girl and half to himself.

"Just because you believe that old sea witch's stories, now you're qualified to tell what's jumbo and what's not?" Pintel took a deep sip of his rum and eyed the girl. "Trust me, there ain't nothing I know better than mystic-magic-jumbo, and that's it."

Ragetti picked the girl up and sat her gently on a bench. "You're not doing it justice," he said, taking the doll from the child's loose hand. "You got to tell her story right."

She was no longer crying, but rather looking inquisitively at the narrow man and his missing eye. Tugging gently on his sleeve, she pointed at the doll, a question on her face.

Ragetti, smoothing the doll's crackling grass hair, sat down beside the girl as his uncle grumbled to his rum. "Well," he began, his voice serious, as to remember all the details, "There was once a man in love with the sea."


	5. Virtue and Vice

**A/N: Inspired by the prompt "virtues and vices."**

**This features my OC Antina, who is the "she" frequently referenced. :) Hope you don't mind!**

**---**

He looked her over without any sort of menace or dubious intention, which was a small miracle considering the time they had been at sea.

Her face was empty in sleep, and he felt the compulsion to brush stray hair from her forehead, a fatherly gesture.

Her hand intercepted his, pushed it away. "What?" she snapped.

He chose his question carefully. "Is it a virtue or a vice?" he asked quietly.

A grumble met him. "Neither," she said, caught between sleep and consciousness. He nodded in agreement.

Her face was too familiar, and Jack was feeling a bit old.


	6. A Gentlmanly Waltz

**A/N: Hurricane provided me with my inspiration this time around: she asked what Jack was most proud of in his entire life. :)**

"My father," she said, carefully and slow. "My... father was the only man who'd ever seen it."

Jack nodded. As she continued, she rocked back and forth a bit; a result, on which Jack could count, of the fine wine she had provided them and proceeded to drink in its entirety (Jack would have caused a ruckus but for the bottle of rum he had conviently housed in his pocket). "The prize of all the watchmakers in all of Germany!"

She opened her delicate, pale hand to reveal the most glorious pocketwatch Jack had ever seen. He was sorely tempted to snatch it right then and there, but he thought it would be a bit improper to pilfer straight from a lady's hand.

Said lady laid the watch on a small table in the center of the room, unsteadily rearranging her layers of deep green skirts, a gleam in her bright eyes. "Dance with me, Jack Sparrow," she said coyly, as though it were a dangerous suggestion that could land them both in scandal.

Always the proper gentleman, Jack removed his eyes from the lovely watch (were he not mistaken, there was a trim of rubies laid about the edge) and laid them on the lady, her hair a striking shade of gold. A smile had worked its way onto her face, and Jack would be lying if he did not admit how attractive she looked in the dim light of candles and the moon peering through the window.

Jack placed his hand gently on his lady's narrow waist. He could feel her breath on his neck -- she was fairly statuesque, which lent her a more foreboding presence than other woman Jack had encountered. He could not help but admire the priceless watch from over her shoulder, but it was not at all gentlemanly to pilfer from behind a lady's back.

"I apologize from the very deapths of me heart," Jack murmered. "But the only dance I know is the waltz."

The lady blinked up at him, all manner of intimidation gone. "A gentleman," she said, a smile playing upon her lips. Jack kept the corner of his eye on the watch, but could not spare a fingertip to pilfer from a lady as they waltzed.

They danced for what seemed like mere moments, until Jack noticed the moonlight had changed and the lady noticed how heavy her eyelids were. She tugged fruitlessly on Jack's sleeve, falling into a heavy brocade armchair. "Jack..." she managed, before the wine closed her eyes and her deep, steady breathing filled the room.

Jack crossed to the cherry wood table in two steps, grabbing the pocket watch with far less care than it deserved. But as he stared at it in his hand, a nagging feeling poked at his brain. It would not be at all proper to pilfer from a lady while she slept off the wine she had meant for them both. Not gentlemanly in the slightest.

Jack set the watch down softly. He returned to the lady's side, and found ample room to ease himself into the same large armchair, a few blond hairs prickling at his cheek. "Until morning, my dear," he said quietly into her ear, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. A gentleman of a pirate he would be.


	7. Mask

**A/N: Prompt of "mask." Thought of it while getting ready this morning!**

As the girl's face changed from a catlike intensity to the fright of an eight-year-old girl who believes in ghosts, he pondered his appearance.

His skull grinned, his eyes jumping from their sockets to the rhythm of cracking ribs and snapping teeth with no lips to hold them back.

His true face.

But what of his other, he wondered (for he was a philosophical sort when time permitted). That mask of meat, flesh that would no doubt be eaten by burrowing maggots were it more than a cruel illusion. He felt trapped by it, somehow, too connected to a man he had been years ago, when he had been naive enough to let greed consume him.

"Best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Swann," he growled. "You're in one!"


End file.
